Ghosts of Christmases Past
by TheDVirus
Summary: Christmas. A time for light, generosity and most of all wonder but also a time of dark nights, cold winds and memories of friends long gone. An ongoing series of one shots about North and Pitch meeting on various Christmases throughout history. Chapters will be rearranged into chronological order as additional stories are written. Non-Pairing!
1. Grief

Pennsylvania 1612

North hoisted his sack higher up on his shoulder.  
He had left the reindeer and the sleigh a little while back, enjoying his usual walk through Burgess woods.  
He was heading to his last stop in the area: a cabin just outside the town.  
It was a cosy little place beside a large pond belonging to a lovely couple with two children, a girl and a boy.

As he walked up the trail to the cabin, something caught his eye.  
At first it appeared to be a haphazard bundle of sticks and hunks of wood sitting a few feet away from the path.  
An axe had been driven into a tree stump nearby.  
The strange shape of some of the pieces of wood gave North pause.  
Lowering his sack to the ground, he knelt and wiped some of snow away.  
As he lifted a long curved piece of wood, he realised what it was.  
The children's sled had been chopped harshly into pieces.  
North had brought it for them last Christmas when the boy had wished he had something he and his sister could both enjoy in the snow.  
Carefully putting the piece back where he left it, a troubled North picked up his sack and resumed his walk up the hill.

North peeked in through the window.  
He could see the daughter sitting on the bed with her back to him.  
She was reading by candlelight.  
Her name was Emma but everyone called her 'Flee' because of how fast she could run. She loved climbing, jumping, cartwheeling and being outside.  
Tonight was the kind of night she liked to be outside making snow angels in the moonlight, returning home tired out with red cheeks and chilled fingers.  
Yet here she was sitting alone in her room.  
It did not make sense.

'She stays inside now when it snows', came a voice on the wind.

North turned and saw a lean, dark shape extricate itself from the treeline.  
Pitch walked across the surface of the pond to join North.  
North felt a trace of unease crawl up his spine.  
What was Pitch doing here?

'But she loves the snow!' North protested, 'The fighting with the balls, the sledding, the ice skating…'

North trailed off when he saw the glitter in Pitch's eyes.

'What happened?' North asked quietly, nervous of the answer.

Pitch waved a hand flippantly towards the pond.

'Her brother drowned earlier this year', Pitch said airily, 'She saw everything'.

North felt as if his heart had stopped.  
Jackson was dead?  
When he had found the boy's name magically missing from his list, North assumed it had been because Jackson, like most other boys his age, had simply outgrown stockings and hiding behind the door trying to glimpse him at his work.  
He couldn't be dead…  
He was always so full of life!

'And what do you bring her?' Pitch patronised as he peered at North's sack, 'New ice skates perhaps?'

North's fingers clenched around the mouth of his sack.  
Pitch was relishing this, the monster!

'Wonder if he's still down there?' Pitch mused mockingly, 'If you like I can go take a look-'

'Be. Quiet'.

Pitch's mouth snapped shut at North's quiet yet dangerous tone.

A cold wind blew between the two spirits, scattering snow drifts like dancing, phantoms of stars.  
North became uncomfortably aware Pitch was looking at him expectantly, like a person watching a stage show.

'How did you know what happened?' North asked, suspicious.

'She was afraid: I always know when they're afraid', Pitch said obviously.

'You had nothing to do with-'

'I didn't have to', Pitch interrupted with a touch of incredulity, 'He was the one who wanted to go ice skating. He was afraid too by the end but the impudent boy wouldn't show it'.

'Jackson was brave', North said sadly with a hint of pride.

'He was delusional', Pitch sneered, 'And now he's dead. Only little Flee left, too scared to go outside'.

'You are cruel', North said with disgust.

Pitch was unrepentant.

'Life is cruel. I am merely a symptom'.

North ignored Pitch and resolved to do his duty.  
He reached into the sack and withdrew Flee's intended present.  
A little cloth doll lay limply in his hand, smiling up at him with rosy cheeks. It wore a pretty brown dress embroidered with flowers.  
Pitch gave a spiteful laugh when he saw it but North ignored him.  
How could a doll make things better? It was so very small.

'She has such interesting dreams you know', Pitch said wistfully, 'His ghost comes from the pond in the night reaching for her through the window. Then she's on trial, her parents sobbing, 'Why didn't you save him?' He's always there beside her but she can't hear or see him no matter how much he shouts and-

North couldn't bear it any longer.  
He swung a fist at Pitch but Pitch was too fast for him.  
North's keen eyes followed the shadowy blur as it skittered across the snow.  
Pitch rematerialized on the surface of the pond and stood like a black pillar candle.  
He stamped a foot and leaning down, cupped a hand around his ear.  
He shrugged when there a lack of a response from beneath the ice.

'Odd isn't it?' Pitch said, 'The more afraid they are the more alive they feel'.

North stamped a foot angrily.

'And what do you feel?!' North snapped, 'Do you feel anything?!'

'I feel full', Pitch smirked as he licked his lips, 'Goodnight Toymaker'.

Then he was gone.  
But the question remained: _What do you bring her?_

North looked at the doll in his hand then at Flee's back.  
She looked so small and fragile curled up on her bed.  
But this only made North more determined to do something about it.  
Pitch had a point: he could not bring her brother back.  
But maybe…with the right modifications…  
He reached for the tools he always kept in his pocket in case of gift emergencies such loose buttons, popped springs or torn clothing.  
He could help her remember him instead of how he died.

The next morning Flee opened the door to the cabin, dreading the trek through the snow to fetch firewood from the pile stored in the outhouse.  
But when she opened it, she gasped.  
Her sled sat on the front step, whole once more, fresh paint shining in the Winter sunshine. Pale blue snowflakes had been painted on the varnished wood and her name was carved in golden letters on the handle.  
She didn't understand: she had chopped the sled up before her father could stop her!  
Sitting on top of the remade sled, one hand resting on her name, was a little cloth doll.  
It was a boy, dressed in a white shirt with brown poncho and trousers.  
He wasn't wearing any shoes and he was smiling at her.  
Hand shaking, Flee picked up the doll and held it close.  
It wasn't what she truly wanted but then… why did it make her feel so happy?  
Tears trailing down her cheeks, she swore to never forget again.  
She would have fun.  
She owed it to him. 


	2. Hunger

Christmas 1880: Northern Coast of Ireland

There were no lights in the town.  
North pulled up the sleigh, having completed his landing successfully and jumped out.  
His reindeer snorted, kicking their hooves impatiently but North quieted them with a raised hand. Trained to perfection, the beasts grew quiet and began to idly graze on the grass around the landing site.  
North adjusted his belt as he surveyed the scene from his vantage point on the hill overlooking the town.  
This town was always his first stop in Ireland. Located on the Northernmost part of the coast, the decorative Christmas lanterns hanging outside the houses would usually have acted as a welcoming beacon. Now the town was dark and quiet.  
As they had flown overhead, North had noticed that even the town Christmas tree, usually given pride of place in the square was conspicuously absent. Usually there would have been a grand party going on around it with singing, dancing and long tables loaded with food and drink. North had even joined in on a couple of occasions, adding his formidable voice to the songs even though none of the adults could hear him. There were good people here: both the children and the adults kept the ideals of Christmas all year round.  
North loved them for that.  
So where were they?

North walked the empty streets.  
The full moon overhead illuminated his path despite the lack of manmade lights.  
A mangy cat crossed his path as it scampered down a dark alleyway. It rattled some dustbins as it disappeared down the shadowy passage and the slight noise was akin to a cacophony in the silence.  
North could sense the town was inhabited but the people hiding in the houses were far from asleep.  
He passed some forlorn looking wreaths hanging on doors and coloured streamers tied around some lampposts suggesting a half-hearted attempt to create a festive atmosphere.  
The customary colourful holiday lanterns were hanging at people's doorposts and windows but none were lit.  
He came to a house he knew well.  
They had six lanterns sitting along their windowsills: one for each of their children.  
North could not stand to see the smiling faces painted on each glass surface look so sad.  
He opened the first lantern and clicking his fingers, caused it to burst into life.

'Don't!' came an urgent whisper from above.

Looking up, North saw three pale, worried little faces looking down at him from an upstairs window.  
He identified them instantly as the family triplets: Deirdre, Aoife and Sorcha.  
He nodded and put the light out before easily clambering up to the children's window using a stack of nearby crates.  
The girls helped to pull him in through the window to the room the three of them shared.  
Once he was safely inside, the three girls gave him a hug which he returned. They were girls of six years of age, all three identical save for the different coloured nightgowns they wore.

'Why no pretty lanterns this year?' North asked, 'Your papa made them for you'.

The girls looked sheepish, eyes downcast.

'It hates the lights', Deirdre said quietly, 'It smashed some a few days ago'.

North felt concern knot his stomach and a small ember of anger begin to burn.  
Was something stopping the townsfolk from enjoying Christmas?

'What 'hates the lights'?' he asked.

'Mam says it comes from the forest', Aoife piped up.

'A big monster with yellow eyes and sharp teeth!' Sorcha said, enjoying the grisly imagery despite her fear, 'It waits until the sun goes down then comes out of its cave'.

The other two girls added their own descriptive interpretations, not to be outdone by their bolder sister.

'It's as big as the trees and has a roar like thunder!' Deidre shivered.

'It gobbles children up: bones an' all!' Aoife exclaimed.

'And it can change shape. It can be anything or anyone', Sorcha said, eyes flicking side to side for dramatic effect.

'And you believe this?' North asked, 'How many children have been taken?'

If the entire town was buying into this 'creature', chances are they were unwittingly making it more powerful.  
It was taking quite a bit of effort to keep his voice calm. If this thing had taken any children then gods help it when he got hold of it.

'Well, none. Some of the grown-ups have seen it', Deirdre said with authority.

'We've all heard it', Aoife said, pointing at herself and both of her siblings. The other two nodded vigorously.

'Heard what?' North pressed, relieved at least that the adults had been proactive in protecting their children.

Aoife and Deirdre seemed unwilling to answer all of a sudden, casting joint nervous glances at the open window. Sorcha, filled with defiance at the fear she felt marched over and shut it with a sharp click before responding.

'Some nights when we're supposed to be asleep, it comes into town. You can hear it: scratchin' and growlin', sniffin' at the doors'. Everyone stays inside. Or you hear it howlin' in the woods. It's in the woods tonight'.

North crossed his arms as he considered the information.  
A forest creature of some kind?  
Had the townspeople done something to incur its wrath?

'Where does it come from?' North asked.

This time even Sorcha was hesitant to answer. It took a reassuring pat on the shoulder from Aoife before she could answer.

'The graveyard in the woods', she said, in a quieter voice, 'The one full of hungry grass'.

That was not a good sign.  
The creatures that lived in graveyards often had special appetites for children.

'Does it have a name?' North asked, grateful for the dual swords hanging at his hips.

'We call it 'The Gobbler' but the grown-ups call it somethin' else', Aoife said.

'What do they call it?'

'Father O'Malley started it', Sorcha said with some annoyance, 'He said our name was 'frivo-frivi…'

'Frivolous', said Deirdre brightly, obviously pleased at having remembered such an unusual word.

'Aye that', Sorcha tutted, 'He says we should call it what it is'.

'And what is it?' North asked, straightening up in preparation to leave.  
He had some hunting to do.

'The Beast', Deirdre whispered.

North had no fear of forests.  
He had once roamed the woods of his country as he pleased, hunting, hiking and just enjoying the simplicity of nature. The sound of wind through trees, bird song and the smell of flowers were invisible but no less beautiful for it.  
This wood however was different.  
This wood was haunted.  
He did not need magic to tell him this.  
As soon as he entered the treeline, a dense silence surrounded him.  
There was no breeze dancing through the leaves and no rustling of forest creatures hurrying to their dens or leaving them to hunt.  
The wood did not want him here.  
His eyes narrowed as he noticed his breath misting in front of him.  
It was December true but he was a Guardian. His breath did not mist.  
Even though the moon was rising high in the sky, he could barely see six paces in front of him.  
As he stepped over a tree root, he noticed an abandoned axe lying in the undergrowth. The trunk of the tree beside it had been shallowly cut: not enough to unbalance it.  
Someone had abandoned the task soon after beginning.  
As his eyes travelled up the trunk, North discovered why.  
Three long diagonal marks were scored into the wood.  
He reached up and traced them, feeling the stick sap coat his fingertips.  
Claw marks.  
Were there bears in Ireland anymore?  
He didn't know what else it could be given the height and strength of the creature that had made the marks.  
Then again, the children had not described an animal.

He drew one of the sabres at his waist, adjusting his stance.  
He walked on the balls of his feet, placing his feet carefully onto the ground to maintain his balance.  
He knew he was downwind but was not sure if the 'Beast' would rely on its sense of smell like regular animals did.

He knew of the graveyard the children had spoken of.  
A graveyard housing the bones of those lost to the Great Famine.  
He knew the story well: even at Christmas the townsfolk had enjoyed a good spine tingler of a tale.  
It had once been a sacred site for the ancient Irish but had been forgotten as the old ways had died away. During the famine, many hungry and desperate wretches had been drawn to the woods, seeking comfort from any god that would listen. One by one they had wandered into the woods and somehow all died at the old sacred site, their bodies reclaimed by the roots of the wood. The town had since built a stone wall around it and consecrated the ground but there were reports of strange lights and voices in the 'graveyard' after dark.  
The 'hungry grass' was a local superstition said to mark a place where someone had died of starvation. Where one to stand on a patch of the pale, brittle grass, they would die of the same hunger, no matter how much they ate. The graveyard was full of the stuff: all the more reason for the townsfolk to avoid it. Better safe than sorry after all.  
Perhaps the 'Beast' was the result of a simple haunting?  
If so, North was experienced enough to handle it. Usually ghosts had a reason to come back and it could often be remedied quickly by returning a stolen item, finding their killer, etc. He had dealt with a wide variety in his time and he was proud of the fact that thanks to him, nobody had ever had to deal with those particular spectres again.  
But those claw marks had been deep.  
Any wounds made by a ghost tended to be light: a bruise or a faint scratch that healed quickly. The depth of the marks on the tree suggested a tangible, not to mention aggressive threat.

North was so wrapped up in thought that he nearly whacked his head on a low hanging branch.  
He stopped just short of it and shook his head.  
Enough with the 'what ifs' and 'how you dos'!  
The town needed help and he would give it to them.  
With a big bow on top!

He emerged from the trees.  
Ahead he could see the ancient standing stones rising from the centre of the graveyard on a small hill.  
The moon shone above.

'I hope you're watching Manny', North whispered, drawing subliminal strength from the light.

It was comforting to know Manny's light could even reach a desolate place like this.  
As he returned his eyes to the scene before him, North realised he wasn't alone.  
The hairs on the back of his neck were on end and his moustache was itching.  
Bad sign.

Then the footsteps came.  
He did not technically hear them: it was more akin to an innate sense that something was coming towards him on quiet, careful feet.  
They were the footfalls of a predator.  
North drew his second sabre and advanced toward the low stone wall ringing the graveyard. 

A large, dark shape leapt over the wall and landed silently in front of him.  
North, hardened by years of experience did not flinch or jump, his eyes automatically focusing on the threat.  
Despite its peaceful appearance, he knew instinctively it was anything but.

. 

The stag's fur was an ebon black and moved in the non-existent wind.  
He tossed his majestic antlered head as he regarded North disdainfully.  
Despite the cold, no mist issued from his nostrils and he did not move like a stag. Stags were careful, cautious and regal. This stag moved with its head low, its languid movements more akin to a big cat.  
He began to circle North clockwise.  
He was cautious, giving North a wide berth despite his assertive entrance.

North knew the stag's yellow eyes glaring at him did not belong to any herbivore.  
He was also conscious of a rising fear in his belly.  
Sweat was beading his forehead and he licked his dry lips.  
He inhaled subtly so as not to betray his nervousness.  
Fear was an unfamiliar sensation to North and as such, he quickly realised the creature was consciously causing it.  
He was not afraid of stags or of monsters pretending to be stags.  
His main emotion in these situations was usually curiosity, not fear.  
As soon as this realization crossed his mind, he realised what or rather who he was dealing with.  
He felt the fear fading as his brain's rational train of thought overpowered the aura emanating from the stag.  
It had been a long time since North had invited him to the North Pole. Their meeting had not ended well and he doubted his opponent had forgotten this.

'Long time no see Pitch', North said conversationally, 'Actually never seen you like this. Suits you'.

The stag halted but did not relax its aggressive posture.  
His eyes were focused on North's sword.

'Moonlight steel? Exotic', Pitch said appraisingly.

North suppressed a shiver at the uncanny sight of Pitch's voice emanating from the inhuman mouth of the stag. It made the stag body seem like a macabre puppet of meat being manipulated by something alien hidden deep inside it.

'Yes. Brand new', North confirmed, 'You like?'

Pitch snorted and stamped a hoof.

'Yes I admit is acquired taste but very effective', North acquiesced, showing Pitch the second sword still sheathed at his hip. No sense drawing it if he didn't have to.

'You plan to use them then?' Pitch hissed, drawing himself up to his full (not inconsiderable) height.

'Hopefully not', North said honestly.

Pitch relaxed a little, obviously confident now that North was not going to start a fight right then and there.

'Go back to your fireside then toymaker', Pitch said dismissively, 'Although somehow I thought you would have been busy tonight'.

North shrugged easily.

'I am. Taking break to deal with little problem the townsfolk are having. Know anything?'

The stag began to shrink as it rose onto its back legs.  
The antlers disappeared into a head of short black hair and the stag's hooves separated into lean grey skinned fingers. The stag's hide melted into a smooth black robe with fur lining the collar.  
Pitch straightened up, inspected his hands, dusted himself off and kicked his feet as he completed his transformation.  
North noticed the gold trim that had lined Pitch's robe at their last meeting was missing, as was Pitch's carved, twisted staff he had always previously carried. Pitch himself also seemed…less solid somehow despite his obvious physical presence. The transformation had also taken a few minutes rather than a few seconds.  
North felt a stab of sympathy.  
Sandy was right.  
Pitch had lost much of his former strength.  
It would explain why he was skulking around in a forest near an isolated town: a controllable hunting ground he could use to farm a steady supply of fear. Begin small with unexplained noises before gradually building up to full scale night terrors and public appearances. He could not affect the whole world like he used to but one town would be easily brought under his influence.  
Despite the Boogeyman's unpleasant proclivity for terrifying children, North did not like to think about how he and the other Guardians were technically responsible for Pitch's weakened state.

'Why listen to me when it seems you've already made up your mind?' Pitch snapped, angered at the pity in North's face.

'Because I want to know why?' North said simply.  
It was true.  
He wanted to give Pitch a chance to explain. It was not right to judge him without giving him that at least.

'Because it's easy', Pitch said sourly, 'I've been rather peckish of late. Christmas is a lean time'.

'Why is that?' North asked, genuinely surprised.  
He had not anticipated Pitch would have experienced any difficulties directly associated with Christmas.

'All those lovely cheery lights do not cast long shadows', Pitch sneered, 'Humans are so simple minded. How can they muse about the darkness under the bed when a pretty little stocking hangs at the end of it?'

'So you take Christmas from a whole town?' North asked, 'Tad excessive no?'

'Not when you haven't eaten this well in months', Pitch growled.

North sighed as his eyes drifted to the moon high above.  
He understood Pitch's position but he had a job to do.

'You know I cannot let this continue', North stated.

Pitch's eyes narrowed.  
A cloud passed over the moon.

'' _Let?_ '' Pitch repeated, 'Funny. I don't recall asking permission'.

'And I am not asking you to apologise', North said diplomatically, 'But I must insist you leave these people in peace. The children were looking forward to Christmas'.

Pitch gave a bitter laugh that echoed around them. It sounded like a chorus of Pitches all laughing at once.

'Those children are liars, thieves and cheats', Pitch snarled, fists clenching, 'They sneak into the woods when they are told not to. They lie when caught doing something they shouldn't. They cry when their parents deny them sweets. They relish my misdeeds and invent new ones to terrify the other children. And yet you would bring them presents'.

'They are free to make their own choices', North said firmly, 'Good or bad. Naughty or nice'.

'And if they choose wrong?' Pitch smirked, 'Will you protect them then? I hope not. The fear of reprisal is always so delicious'.

'I protect their right to make mistakes', North said with finality, 'Now, are you going to make a mistake? Or are you going to leave here in peace?'

Pitch glared at him.  
North did not look away despite the ringing silence that had greeted his question.  
You stared fear down. You didn't give it any ground.

'That sounds like a threat', Pitch eventually said quietly.

'Just good advice', North corrected.

'But not _friendly_ advice', Pitch spat, 'You are no better than me with your little petty lists! You want obedience through threats!'

'No', North said calmly, 'I simply expect people to accept the consequences of the choices they make'.

The first blow would come soon. He could see it in Pitch's eyes.

'Then I ask again Toymaker', Pitch said coldly, as a long sharp scythe materialized in his hands, 'what if I choose wrong?'

'Then at least you will have chosen', North said and adopted a defensive stance.

Despite his preparations North almost didn't see the blow coming.  
He ducked just in time to avoid the deadly blade of the scythe. His hat was knocked from his head, the crown sheared clean off.  
The material fluttered to the ground as North spun and blocked Pitch's next backhanded blow with his sword while simultaneously drawing the second.  
He swung with the second and missed.  
Pitch had not moved from his initial position.  
His self-confident smirk widened as the scythe's reach shortened preternaturally. There was no need to move when your weapon could be long range or short range on a whim.  
North knew he had to close the distance.  
The scythe came again in a lethal swing but North, prepared for it this time, cut through the haft, breaking the scythe in two. Pitch cried out in pain, hands spasming as the weapon temporarily disintegrated.  
North was on him before Pitch could react.  
He slashed at Pitch's robe.  
The sword cut easily through the black material and Pitch snarled at the cut.  
The material floated to the ground and vanished like rising ash. Pitch fell back.  
North did not advance further but crossed both swords in front of his chest. He let the moonlight catch them, causing them to glow a pale blue.

'You have been warned', North said, 'Leave now'.

Pitch's eyes flicked between North and the moon above then to the cut edge of his robe. A small trail of black vapour was rising from the singed fabric. Moonlight steel cut deep.  
Disgusted at having been beaten so ignobly, Pitch hissed venomously in humiliation as he flung a dirt clod in North's eyes.  
North staggered back, one hand wiping his eyes while the other kept a sword in a defensive position to keep Pitch at bay.  
By the time North cleared his eyes, Pitch had vanished.  
A wraith like black horse stood where he had fallen. Pitch reared and defiantly struck at North with hard hooves before turning and cantering away. He passed the graveyard and disappeared between the trees, an angry shriek cutting the air like a banshee cry.  
North watched Pitch go dispassionately before tuning to head back to the village.

North returned to his sleigh, placing his swords in the sheaths set into the woodwork.  
One blade was stained with clinging black liquid. He would have to purify it with moondust when he returned to the workshop.  
He retook the reins and whistled to the reindeer.  
They took off and circled high above the village.  
There was no guarantee Pitch would not be back but for now, the best thing for North to do was his job.  
In moments, every lantern in the town was lit, bathing the cobbles in rainbow coloured light. As the townspeople crowded outside in wonder, North began present dispersal. Within the hour, the townsfolk were gathering supplies for their belated annual party, the fear of the last few weeks forgotten in the Christmas miracle they were witnessing. North could not stay for the party this year, dealing with Pitch had left him behind schedule but he did permit himself a low fly by, the bells of the sleigh ringing out crystal clear. He laughed as he saw a few confused adults look overhead along with the waving, cheering children.  
Pitch had no chance against that much hope, light and laughter.  
The sleigh settled back on course, flying over the woods Pitch had called home.  
Now that the Boogeyman had fled, they seemed peaceful and quiet, the cold pall of darkness banished.  
North was struck by a melancholy notion as he watched an owl soaring above the trees.  
Little by little the dark places were dwindling.  
Pitch would soon have nowhere to hide.  
He supposed he should have been happy but…  
Without darkness, what good was light?


End file.
